


to the end and our beginning

by Macremae, OnyxSphinx



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies), The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: M/M, and found the ppdc lol, anyway have this fun. thingy, hmmmm no??? only we can start the apocalypse????? go find your own planet?????, in which the entities are like, not pru compliant, or so I tell myself, you gotta put the content you want out into the world
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:21:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22315498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macremae/pseuds/Macremae, https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphinx/pseuds/OnyxSphinx
Summary: Hermann Gottlieb dreams of peoples' deaths. This is rather useful, it turns out, in predicting and countering kaiju attacks.
Relationships: Hermann Gottlieb & Karla Gottlieb, Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Comments: 9
Kudos: 57





	to the end and our beginning

**Author's Note:**

> sooooooooo i. binged all of tma. and then wrote this in about one sitting. lay back and enjoy. credit to macremae for hermann's monologue and the title

He doesn't _mean_ to get into it. Not really—he's seen what happened to those who got too... _far_. He doesn't think he'll ever really be able to banish the image of the Corruption from his mind, after that run-in with Prentiss.

Lars wants him to, of course—runs in his blood, he says; runs in the family. Not always for the same _power_ , of course, but with very few exceptions, all of the Gottliebs have devoted themselves to one or another.

 _Karla_ didn't, but then, _Karla_ was possibly the only one of the four of them who was sharp enough to see through the tangled web—and it _was_ Web, his father. Rather good at it, too, Hermann will admit.

Either way, he doesn't _mean_ to get into it. Spends the better part of his life pursuing an academic career in the hopes that if he distanced himself from that world, from Lars' world, it'd—what, keep him _safe?_

It _didn't_ ; of course it didn't. It's only a half a year before the appearance of Trespasser that he winds up attending the funeral of Bastien, and Hermann hesitates when he gets the offer, and then he _accepts_ it, foolishly, and—well.

He hates himself for it; of course he does, but even just those few months with the Archives—of convincing himself it's _just_ for now, just until he can figure out how the hell to _stop_ what Bastien's little _group_ was trying to do—is enough to get him thrown in the line of fire of the End, and when he comes out the other side, he's fired from his brief stint in researching at the Archives, and it's. He's.

It's _him,_ and he's _it,_ and, well. There's not much he can _do_ about it.

So he gives Karla a ring and sobs himself dry over the phone, and feels bad about _that_ , but Karla takes it rather better than _he_ had and manages to talk him through doing anything _rash_.

"Thank you," he murmurs, finally, voice hoarse, and she gives a soft, sad laugh.

"Oh, _Brüderchen_ ," she says, "I'm just sorry I couldn't be there for you."

Hermann swallows thickly. "It's not your fault," he protests. "I—well, honestly, I think...I think this was Lars' plan, all along. It's not like I could well have _escaped_ it."

He can feel her frown, but she doesn't argue against it; not when, after breaking down to her, Hermann'd told her that it was Lars himself who told him, smugly, what exactly he'd become.

She sighs; says, instead, "It's getting late, here, and I have work tomorrow, but...stay safe, okay? Take care of yourself."

He manages to summon up a tired half-smile. "I'll try," he says, because he can't promise anything, not—not _now,_ not after _this_ , but he'll. He'll _try_.

The phone goes silent, and he turns it off; scrubs a hand roughly over his face; gets up to go splash some cold water on his face to try and make the puffiness go down. Then he takes a bath, scrubs at his skin until it turns an angry red because it just feels— _wrong_ , and—and _dirty,_ and the hot water scalds the raw skin and he bites back a hiss of pain.

It doesn't stick around for long; by the time he's got his hair shampooed, the spots that had been rubbed till they bled are all healed over, like they were never there in the first place, save for faint, silvery scars that he's sure will also be gone before long.

He shivers; turns off the water and gets dressed. His fingers don't shake as he buttons up his shirt. He takes the bus to the uni he's teaching at.

Two weeks later, he wakes up in San Francisco.

Or; rather, he wakes in his _dream_ in San Francisco.

There's a horrid, pulsing orange— _thing_ reaching its tendrils into the people around him. Hundreds— _thousands_ of them, some obscured entirely by the way it covers them, others only partially consumed, and others, still, are standing, but he can see the orange pulsing through their thin, pale skin where their blood vessels and arteries should be, their hearts shuddering as they try and pump while constricted by the orange.

Hermann bites back a choking sob.

He knows what this is. He—it's a—a—a _warning_ , of what is to come. A cruel _joke_ , because there's nothing he can _do_ to save these poor unfortunates. Hell, beyond their _names_ —which pop into his mind as he lays eyes upon them—he doesn't _know_ anything about them.

For the first time, he wishes he had gone and taken that archival position Lars pushed him towards in his teens—at least then, maybe, he'd _Know_ something.

He almost laughs at that. Look at him now—wishing he'd gotten in with the Beholding. It's funny, in a morbid way, though he doubts that it would have _done_ anything.

He wakes up in a cold sweat, but he's not _afraid_ . Oh, sure, _logically_ it's— _terrifying_ , or at least it _should_ be, but it's _not_ . He can't—he _can't_ fear it, and that realisation almost sends him into a panic attack, but it doesn't, in the end, and he just stares at the ceiling for three hours until the rays of sunlight creep over it and he gets up for the day.

Two days later, Trespasser emerges, and Hermann's dream becomes reality as it destroys three cities in six days and almost a hundred-thousand lives are lost before they take it down with nuclear missiles, which kill even _more_ in the long run, and turn the Bay into Oblivion Bay and leave the surrounding area a no-go zone for millennia.

He keeps dreaming that same dream. The location changes, but every time, he knows their names; each and every last one. Hundreds of thousands, millions, maybe, even, of names. He doesn't remember most of them the next morning, but he can't help but feel haunted by the guilt.

Of course he does his best to try and prevent what he can—joins up with the newly-formed PPDC to try and create a predictive model and help code the Jaegers, but there's only so much he can do.

There's also the small matter of the fact that the PPDC _isn't_ , actually, terribly concerned with humanity itself. Lars is in on it, and of course he couldn't help but let it spill to Hermann that the entities are behind the PPDC, and the only reason they're not just letting the kaiju have their way with Earth is because they feel like it's an encroachment on their territory.

"Jealousy," Karla says, flatly, when he tells her, and then lets out a hollow laugh. "Who would have thought."

"Well, if you look at it one way, I suppose," Hermann says; tiredly. "Yes, I...I suppose so."

Karla laughs again, and then they just silently for a few minutes before Hermann says, awkwardly, "Well, I ought to—to be getting back to it."

"Er—yeah, probably," Karla agrees.

This time, she doesn't ask him to take care when she hangs up.

* * *

Newton Geiszler is the most wonderful person Hermann has ever spoken to.

Well; spoken is probably the wrong term for it.

He gets a letter from one _Newton Geiszler_ on the subject of his work on the Breach, as they've taken to calling it—it's 2014, and Hermann wishes that they could come up with something that sounds less like it came straight from the mouth of James Tiberius Kirk but there's nothing to be done now that it's caught on—, and he's instantly fascinated.

He tears through the three double-sided pages in the envelope and then—much as he would deny it—googles the man to find out who the _hell_ he is.

He's—oh, God, he's _incredibly_ handsome, is Hermann's first though, on coming across the man's Facebook—and he's quite sure it's the right person, because he's listed as an MIT post-grad student and there's links to his papers (which he mentioned in his letter) on his page, and—

Well, he never really stood a _chance,_ did he—handsome, and intelligent, and interested in Hermann's work.

He writes back and his ears are burning a bright, embarrassed red as he mails it.

He gets a reply back within the week.

 _Hermann_ — _can I call you that?_ — _, I'm SO glad you replied_ — _I've been mailing practically EVERYONE I can find who's involved with the PPDC's research division, and you're the only one who's replied. WHICH is fantastic, because, like, you're THE smartest person there, probably, but ANYWAY, I'm getting off-topic, which is: THE KAIJU ARE ALIENS._

 _Yeah I know it sounds batshit BUT hear me out_ —

The rest of the letter is a long, rambling thing, written in a messy scrawl, and, for emphasis, he's written words in caps—which is, horribly, embarrassingly, endearing. And he actually puts together a rather well-thought-out reasoning for his argument, so that, by the time Hermann's done with it, he's rather convinced of it himself.

After all, if the entities—who are, in a way, aliens themselves—exist, then it's hardly a far cry to say that the kaiju are aliens. And, if that's true, then it gives him an interesting new angle on the Breach, and its function—a wormhole, perhaps? Or—no, another dimension!

He lets out a wordless exclamation of excitement, and then laughs. "Wonderful!" he cries, and laughs again.

One of his colleagues, busy running her own simulations, glances over to him with an odd look, and Hermann snaps his mouth shut, burningly away, all at once, that he's on the clock.

Still; he can't help but be overjoyed.

And then they meet in person.

It's a sunny day in Berlin—there's not a cloud in sight, and Hermann shivers when he catches sight of the wide, blue sky, doing his best to not think about Simon Fairchild's love of pushing people off of things. Other than that, though, it's a rather nice day.

They've agreed to meet at a café not far from where Hermann used to live, and hasn't changed much since he last came here, years ago. The barista on shift greets him with a short nod, and he rattles off his order mechanically.

There's a scoff behind him. " _Seriously?_ " asks a voice, " _that's_ what you're getting? And I thought you just _looked_ like a grandpa."

Hermann frowns and turns to address the man, words spilling out before he can register _who_ he's talking to. "I'd _appreciate_ if you didn't _comment_ ," he snaps, "and I _hardly_ doubt your choice would be any _better_ —" And then he stops, mouth snapping shut, because this—this is _Newton_.

The other doesn't recognise him—why would he, it's not like Hermann's ever shown his face, and he hasn't got any publicly-available photos of himself—, and flushes, blustering. "Well fuck you _too_ , dude."

" _Please_ lower your voice," Hermann hisses, "Newton, we are in _public_ —"

" _How do you know my name?_ " the other demands, eyes narrowing, and Hermann could _kick_ himself.

"Look," he says, "please, I'll explain in a moment, just—"

" _No_ , I'm not going to calm down!" Newton shouts, "I don't know _shit_ about who you are, but _you know my name_ , you— _you creep_ —!"

" _Herr, dein Tee_ —" the barista tries, but Hermann barely even hears it, the blood pounding in his ears.

"You—!"

"—and I swear _to god_ I'm not going to stop—"

"—it's _me,_ you imbecile—"

"—and explain what the _hell_ is going on—"

"— _I'm Hermann!_ " he cries finally.

Newton goes silent. " _What?_ " he croaks, and he is beet-red, face all splotchy and purple and if it weren't so horribly embarrassing for _Hermann_ as well, or if this were happening to anyone else but him, he'd laugh. "You—?"

" _Yes,_ " Hermann snaps, and snatches his drink, gritting his teeth. "Now for the love of _God,_ will you _please_ lower your _voice?_ "

Newton purses his lips, but does—even moves out of line along with Hermann to go sit at one of the tables. "You're—not what I was expecting," he says, eying Hermann warily. Hermann tries not to flinch.

"You're hardly wonderful company either," he snaps.

"Well, you're a _dick_ ," Newton shoots back, "look, I gotta go—this was a waste of my time."

"The feeling is _mutual_ ," Hermann hisses, "do _not_ speak to me again, you—you _wretched_ little man."

" _I won't,_ " Newton says, glaring, "you're the most disappointing person I've met in a _while_ , and that's saying a lot."

This time, Hermann does flinch, but Newton's already turned away, and made his way back to the counter, where he orders a drink and strides out the door once it's done. Hermann swallows back hurt and tries to drink his tea, but it tastes bitter, and when he presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth, it feels like sand.

 _Lonely_ , he thinks, for the barest moment, before he brushes the thought away. Not _Lonely_ , he reminds himself, _just..._ lonely.

He drops the cup in the trashbin on the way out, and wishes his return-flight weren't two days later.

* * *

They've been assigned to the Hong Kong Shatterdome together for three years when Hermann accidentally miscalculates.

It's bad.

Very bad.

One single missed piece of data, and his model slowly degrades—not enough to notice, at first, but then. Well. When a kaiju comes through six moths before the window of time it's meant to, that's not something _ignorable_ . One _single_ mistake, and—gone. Oh, they take it out in the end, but thousands die.

They nearly lose the Hansens to it.

Hermann dreams in orange again when he finally passes out; the now-familiar sight of blood turned sickly, deadly orange—a slow, painful death of exposure to Kaiju Blue.

When he wakes up, he gets back to work feverishly.

Newton's presence is barely noticeable; he's lost in his work, concentrating every ounce of his being on it. "I'm heading down to eat," Newton says, after some unknowable amount of time, and Hermann just gives a noncommittal grunt in reply, and returns to his equations.

Later, Newton says something about how it's getting late and he's going to turn in, and reminds Hermann not to stay up too late. "Mm," Hermann murmurs, and readjusts his grip on his pencil so his hand doesn't shake, and jots down another line of code.

"Alright, this is _it,_ " Newton snaps, the next evening, and sets his scalpel down loudly. "Hermann, you _gotta_ get some rest, man, this is getting _crazy_."

"Can't," Hermann says, distractedly, "work to do."

" _Sleep first_ ," Newton says, firmly, "look, man, I get that you feel guilty, but—"

"Newton," Hermann says, sharply, "please— _don't_. You don't understand."

"You feel _guilty_ ," Newton says, again, "which, is, like, understandable, but I can't just keep— _we_ can't just let you keep running yourself into the ground, alright? If you burn the candle at both ends, there won't be anything left."

He sighs, and peels his gloves off, letting them drop into the Lonely—Hermann _still_ hasn't gotten used to that, and he'd scold the other for it, they have to pay extra for latex-free gloves, Newton, _we have a tight_ budget—, and says, "You need to spend more time with people."

"Oh, that's _rich_ , coming from _you_ ," Hermann snarls, suddenly so—so damn _angry_.

The other flinches. "Hermann—"

"No, I—" Hermann takes a deep breath. Neither of them speak for a moment, and then Hermann says, "Alicia Su."

Newton blinks at him. "What—?"

"Mei Long. Suen Ya Xing. Yiu Tam. Sai Wong. Mary Li. Need I continue?" 

"Wha—why are saying a bunch of names at me?" Newton asks, bewildered.

Hermann ignores the question. "Do you know," he says, softly, "what I see every time I close my eyes, Newton? Names. Hundreds and hundreds of names, night after night—some times, I don't remember it. I don't remember _most_ of their names, Newton, but I remember their _faces_. They are people who will die, and I see their faces and mostly there are only a few hundred from Hong Kong from day to day, but..." he pauses.

"Then there are days," he continues, "when I see _thousands_ . And those are the days I know there will be another attack, , and there's nothing I can do but watch them get closer and closer, and I try—I _try_ to pull enough information from them so that I can make that number smaller.

"But sometimes I—I make _mistakes_ . Sometimes I am _wrong_ . And then the number gets _bigger._ And every time, whether it’s one or ten or fifty thousand, it is always my fault. This is my job, Newton. Their lives are quite literally in my hands. And if there is anything I can do to save them? Then I will make the trade time and time again. Always."

He swallows; breath coming, suddenly, quick; and he's so— _tired_ , all of a sudden.

"...oh," Newton says, quietly. "I—"

"Didn't know?" Hermann says. "No—I wouldn't've expected you to. Just because _some_ of us aren't subtle doesn't mean that _all_ of us are."

"Well that kind of explains _some_ things," Newton says, "like, the, uh— _deathly pale_ thing."

That makes Hermann laugh. "No, Newton," he says, "I'm just extremely pale—in case you hadn't noticed, it's not like I have much occasion to go outside."

"Oh shut up," Newton says, but he's smiling now, so—that's alright.

* * *

The first thing he learns about Newton Geiszler is that he's extremely enthusiastic. The last thing he learns about Newton Geiszler is that when he is scared, it's the most heart-breaking thing Hermann has ever seen.

He doesn't think Newton will do it—of _course_ he doesn't, Newton may be a fool, but he's not an _idiot_ , usually, but then when Hermann drifts off to sleep, instead of the familiar sea of faces, all he can see is Newton, his left eye ringed in sickly orange.

He jerks awake with a gasp; scrabbles blindly for his clothes and races down to the lab, and—

Newton's on the floor.

 _No,_ Hermann thinks, _not him, please, not_ him.

He falls to the ground by Newton's side; meaningless sounds tumbling forth from his lips, and if he could, he knows he'd be _terrified_ but he's just— _fuzzy_ , instead, and he's shaking Newton, wake up, _wake up you bastard_ —and then—

And then Newton is grasping at him, eyes wide, and his lips are moving silently, and he is _terrified_ and Hermann's heart breaks right then and there and he'd do _anything_ to make sure Newton never looks like that again.

He's fine, though—he's _fine_. He gets up and drinks a glass of water and tells the Marshal what he's learnt and then he goes off on a wild-goose-chase after Hannibal Chau, and then he and Hermann Drift, and then the War ends and they are celebrating—

And then Newton's heart stops.

It must be something to do with the fear—enough fear _can_ send the body into shutdown, after all, the repeated stress too much to handle—, and Hermann feels it like a knife twisting in his chest, and he lets out a wet gasp.

Before he falls away from him, Newton's face contorts into one of pure, helpless fear—a terror so strong that Hermann can _taste_ it.

And then his head hits the ground with a sickening crack and no one else is _noticing_ and Hermann is the only _one_ and he hates that he's not panicking, but as it is, all he can do is scramble to his side and try and remember his first-aid training—is it twenty-five beats a minute? Thirty-two?—but he already knows it's not going to be enough—

And then Newton's gone.

Just— _gone_.

It takes a moment for Hermann to realise it; his palms slamming painfully against the floor, and the pain is what brings him to; blinking at the empty space Newton was just a moment before, and then he remembers— _oh; Lonely._

He swallows thickly. There's—he has to—Newton is dead, and if he can't get him _out_ of there, he's going to _stay_ dead.

It's Tendo who finds someone in the end; Hercules Hansen himself, as it turns out. Hermann murmurs his quiet thanks as the ranger agrees to send him in.

After a moment, the emptiness of Lonely fills his mind; seeps into his bones.

"Newton?" he calls, and his voice echoes for what seems like forever in this sightless, soundless, boundless emptiness. "Newton? Where are you?"

"He wants to stay," says a voice, smugly. "He doesn't want to go back."

Hermann whirls around. " _You_ ," he snarls; and he can't _see_ them but he _knows_ it's the Precursors—or at least, Newton's mental image of them. "Shut _up._ "

They blink at him placidly; hollow eyes closing and opening like the gills of a fish, and just as unnerving. Hermann swallows back a gag of discomfort and presses on. "Newon? Newton? Where are you? I'm—I'm here for you, Newton, please, tell me where you are..."

He doesn't know how long he wanders; long enough to find him, laying, silently, on his back on the ground, staring sightlessly up. His left iris is ringed bright red, and it seems like it's the only colour in the entire place.

" _Newton_ ," Hermann says, relieved. "Come, we have to go—"

"No," Newton says calmly. "No, this is—this is right. I'm supposed to be here...alone."

"You're supposed to be _alive!_ " Hermann exclaims, and there's a note of hysteria in his voice before he calms himself and settles down by Newton's side; cane set at his side. “Newton, please.”

“It hurts,” Newton says quietly, voice horribly dull. “I don’t... I don’t feel anything, but. It hurts. And. I’m cold. And I don’t want to feel like this and, I dunno; here it’s... quiet. Like hypothermia.” He chokes out a dry, emotionless laugh that sounds more like a death rattle. “Maybe we’ll get snow.”

Hermann takes one of the hands on Newton’s chest and squeezes it, hard. “I know. I think that’s how they find us. We hurt and, without an Anchor to something good, that’s all we become. But there are good things; good people. And they want you to come home.”

“I’m not anything,” says Newton, and Hermann feels like he’s about to cry, but he just moves his thumb back and forth across the top of Newton’s hand.

"Newton," he says, again, more softly, "look at me. Please."

Newton does. It's slow—ever so slow, but he manages it. Hermann swallows thickly. "Look at me," he says, again. "What do you see, Newton?"

"I...I see— _you_ ," Newton breathes, and it seems, all of a sudden, that colour has burst back into the world as his hand reaches out and his palm cups Hermann's face. "I see _you_."

Hermann smiles weakly, and places his own palm over Newton's. "Good," he murmurs, "good."

And then they're back.

Newton requires medical attention—his heart is still not _beating_ , after all, but they get him back. They get him _back_ . Newton Geiszler died, but he didn't _stay_ that way.

For maybe the first time in his life, sitting here, in the chair by Newton's medical cot, Hermann is— _glad_ for it.

Newton shifts in his sleep and mutters something that Hermann can't quite hear, but he smiles at it anyway; reaches out to brush a loose lock of hair from his face. In his sleep, Newton smiles.

He falls asleep without even realising it—exhaustion weighing his eyes shut, and being here, so near to Newton, is... _good_ , and he lets his guard down. Lets himself fall off into the quiet, comforting darkness of sleep.

And then his vision is filled with that glow again; orange and sickly, of death. Hundreds of faces, none that he recognises, but _still_ —

"—mann? Hermann?"

Newton's grasping his hand tightly; calling his name, and Hermann realises he's been whimpering in his sleep. "Y—yes?" he croaks, "sorry, were you saying something—?"

"I was asking if you're okay," Newton says. "You looked like you were—having a nightmare, or something."

"Oh," Hermann says. "Er. I..." he could lie; play it off as stress, but he doesn't. "Yes," he says, finally, with a nod. "The, ah—the usual one."

"...oh," Newton murmurs, after a moment, and shifts so that he can put his hand on Hermann's arm. "Oh, Hermann, I'm sorry. You don't deserve that, not—not now."

"I—thank you," Hermann says, and swallows. "Can I—?"

"Wh—oh! Oh, yeah, of course, get up here—"

It takes a bit of manoeuvring, but they manage to both fit into the cot, and Newton shifts so that Hermann's leg isn't going to get put in an uncomfortable position, and then he turns his head and kisses Hermann's cheek, lightly.

"What's that for?" Hermann asks, face heating.

Newton shrugs. "'Cause I like you," he says. "Thank you for...for saving me, by the way."

"Don't mention it," Hermann returns, and finds Newton's hand, slipping his fingers between his own.

Newton smiles. "'Kay," he says, "I'm going back to sleep. G'night, Hermann."

"Goodnight, Newton."

Tomorrow, there'll be the rest of the world, and the constant power-struggle of the entities to deal with, but that's tomorrow. Today, Hermann is just a man who is in love, and that's all that it needs to be.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [autisticharrow](https://autisticharrow.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
